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PERSONS  FROM  PORLOCK 


<From  the  Ci6rary  of  O.E.  and 
Mary  MapCe  Jones 


JA  gift  from  (Esther  (Doughtie  Erench, 

Jane  Doughtie  TayCor  (Richard rT  (Doughtie  III 


m 

University  of  Illinois  Library  at  Urbana-Champaign 


PERSONS 

C FROM 

PORLOCK 

Vincent  oStarrdt 


Ofiicctc/o 

oofafellowf 

J923 


Copyright  1923  by 
Vincent  Starr ett 


THE  TORCH  PRESS 
CEDAR  RAPIDS 
IOWA 


“PERSONS  FROM  PORLOCK”  appeared  first  in 
Reedy's  Mirror  some  time  in  December,  1919.  If  it  is 
important  to  anyone  to  know  the  exact  date  he  may  con- 
sult the  records  and  find  out ; for  what  other  purpose  do 
we  maintain  records  at  great  inconvenience  to  ourselves 
and  to  the  community  in  general,  and  employ  librarians 
and  other  salaried  functionaries  who  first  create  the 
records  and  then  interpret  them  to  the  public;  than  to 
satisfy  the  demands  of  this  person  who  is  forever  want- 
ing to  know  the  exact  dates  when  things  happened? 
Suffice  it  to  say  that  the  appearance  of  this  essay  was 
greeted  with  acclaim;  children  shouted,  “It  is  so!”  and 
newspaper  men  in  Ardmore,  Oklahoma  (where  the  Mirror 
is  understood  to  have  had  an  enormous  paid  circulation) 
exclaimed,  “Selah !”  and  registered  complete  accord. 
Readers  far  and  wide  joined  in  the  verdict  that  at  last 
the  whole,  irrefragible  and  incontestible  truth  had  been 
told  about  the  matter. 

But  the  far-reaching  effects  of  this  tour  de  force  were 
by  no  means  confined  to  the  subscription  list  of  the 
Mirror.  The  people  at  home  here,  where  there  was  only 
one  copy  of  the  Mirror  extant  and  that  not  free  from 
question  as  to  its  paidness,  went  around  talking  Por- 

5 


lock  for  several  days.  Eric  Dixon  made  frequent  refer- 
ences to  it,  and  Frances  Donovan  was  reminded  of  Per- 
sons from  Porlock  whenever  the  doorbell  rang.  Without 
exaggeration,  it  may  be  said  to  have  modified  the  lives 
of  several  families  for  a number  of  days. 

An  essay  so  latent  with  inherent  power  obviously 
should  be  published  in  a limited  first  edition  by  The 
Bookfellows;  three  hundred  copies  on  French  hand 
made  paper,  each  copy  signed  by  the  author,  would  not  be 
inappropriate.  And  that,  dear  reader,  with  your  kind  per- 
mission, is  exactly  what  has  happened. 

Done  in  the  ancient  city  of  Chicago  in  the  month  of 
September,  1923. 

— George  Steele  Seymour 


6 


T THIS 

moment  he 
was  unfor- 
tunately 
called  out 
by  a person 
on  business 
from  Por- 
lock,  and 
detained  by 
him  above 

an  hour.  ...” 

That  person  from  Porlock! 

There  is  no  further  record  of  him,  I believe; 
no  clew  to  the  business  he  was  about,  of  such 
importance  that  it  detained  “above  an  hour”  the 
poet  upon  whose  table  lay  the  interrupted  man- 
uscript of  “Kubla  Khan.”  He  lives  for  a mo- 
ment in  Coleridge’s  note  to  the  first  edition  of  the 
poem,  then  passes  from  history.  Doubtless  he 
went  back  to  Porlock,  where,  it  is  conceivable,  his 

7 


descendants  still  live,  and  occasionally  perhaps, 
still  interrupt  the  labors  of  others.  On  business, 
no  doubt ! Always  on  business ! 

In  heaven’s  name,  just  what  business  is  Por- 
lock  celebrated  for?  There  is  no  atlas  handy, 
or  I would  look  it  up. 

And  what  earthly  business  could  he  have  had 
with  Coleridge?  — this  — this  — “person!”  In 
England,  and  more  so  in  that  day  than  in  this, 
the  distinction  between  a person  and  a gentleman 
is  rather  marked.  Coleridge  would  not  have 
written  down  the  one  for  the  other.  We  may  be 
assured  that  it  was  “business”  indeed;  and  prob- 
ably a very  low  and  sordid  transaction  — not, 
however,  furtive.  Perhaps  the  matter  of  a bill  — 
trifling  enough,  no  doubt,  but  of  supreme  import- 
ance to  the  person  from  Porlock;  even  to  Cole- 
ridge, it  may  be.  ...  I hope  he  had  the 
money!  I am  convinced  that  this  business  in- 
volved money,  for  it  detained  him  “above  an 
hour.”  Was  not  the  poet’s  first  word  sufficient, 
that  he  could  not  pay  that  day?  But  no!  The 
person  from  Porlock  would  want  his  money.  It 
is  characteristic  of  persons  from  Porlock.  What 
to  him  was  the  fact  that,  in  the  embarrassment  of 

8 


his  demands,  “Kubla  Khan”  was  fading  from  the 
brain  that  had  dreamed  it^ 

I may  be  quite  wrong  about  this.  I hope  I 
am.  But  it  is  certain  that  however  important 
the  business  of  the  man  from  Porlock,  it  was 
insignificant  beside  the  necessity  for  finishing 
“Kubla  Khan.” 

Would  that  we  had  this  person’s  name.  We 
would  niche  him  forever  with  the  outcasts  — em- 
balm him,  a fly  in  amber,  for  the  revilement  of 
all  posterity. 

Poor  Coleridge ! Immortal  somnambulist ! 
Luckless  dreamer!  That  person  from  Porlock 
seemed  always  to  stand  between  him  and  com- 
pleted work.  Nearly  all  his  writings  are  frag- 
mentary — incomplete.  Some  other  person  or 
thing,  when  it  was  not  the  Porlock  nuisance, 
transpired  to  interrupt  his  performance.  I fan- 
cy he  grew  to  dread  a knock  upon  the  door,  shut 
away  in  the  shelter  of  his  own  imaginings ; heard 
that  devil’s  tattoo  upon  his  panels  when,  perhaps, 
no  knock  had  been  given.  . . . Jean  Paul 

wrote  eloquently  to  the  din  of  kitchen  utensils, 
with  the  amiable  chatter  of  his  family  about  him, 
and  the  doves  flying  in  and  out  of  the  kitchen 

9 


door.  Imagine  Coleridge  doing  that . Imagine 
Carlyle ! 

Persons  from  Porlock.  . . . They  are  at 

every  turn  of  the  crooked  road,  at  every  bend  of 
the  stream.  Life  is  congested  with  them;  they 
fill  the  world  with  their  meaningless,  unmeaning, 
well-meant  chatter.  From  their  “business”  nobody 
is  exempt,  nothing  is  sacred.  They  are  numbered 
in  the  millions;  and  of  their  number  are  our 
friends  and  the  members  of  our  family. 

Business  is  their  excuse  and  their  fetish.  Now 
business,  of  course,  is  important  — ist  it  not  ? 
Business  — important.  The  one  word  is  signi- 
ficant of  the  other.  Obviously,  if  business  is  un- 
important it  is  not  business;  if  it  is  business,  it  is 
not  unimportant.  And  — dear  me ! — if  it  is 
neither  business  nor  important,  then  it  is  nothing. 
Nothing  is  that  which  without  which  nothing  is 
not.  I do  not  know  how  this  strikes  you ; to  me 
it  seems  rather  incoherent.  To  the  person  from 
Porlock  it  is  all  as  simple  as  A,  B,  C,  for  it  is  his 
argument  that  I am  trying  to  get  at.  I imagine 
Coleridge  found  it  trying  enough;  no  wonder  he 
was  detained  “above  an  hour.”  Importance,  it 
is  true,  is  a relative  term.  There  is  important 

10 


business,  and  more  important  business,  and  very 
important  business,  and  so  on;  but  it  is  an  in- 
flexible rule  that  the  business  immediately  in 
hand  is  quite  the  most  important  business  in  the 
world,  at  the  moment,  to  the  person  from  Porlock. 
It  is  a truth  easily  demonstrated.  The  man  will 
tell  you  so  himself,  with  the  utmost  candor,  and 
with  an  incredulous  stare  at  your  stupidity.  You 
say,  for  instance: 

“Really,  old  man,  I haven’t  a moment  to  spare. 
I’m  just  in  the  middle  of  ‘Kubla  Khan,’  a very 
curious  poem  I dreamed  last  night.  I want  to 
get  it  down  before  I forget  it.” 

And  the  person  from  Porlock  looks  at  you  as 
if  you  were  quite  the  strangest  thing  he  had  seen 
all  day,  and  replies: 

“I’m  sorry,  Mr.  Coleridge,  but  this  bill  must  be 
paid.  It’s  been  running  now  since  June,  and  this 
is  the  third  time  I’ve  called  to  collect  it.” 

And  you  answer  him: 

“But,  don’t  you  understand4?  I’ll  forget  this, 
if  I don’t  get  it  down  on  paper,  right  away.  It’s 
a dream  — don’t  you  understand4?” 

It  is  perfectly  apparent  that  he  does  not  under- 
stand. If  he  is  inclined  to  be  rude,  he  will  say : 

11 


“I  don’t  know  anything  about  your  dreams, 
and  I care  less.  What  I’m  interested  in  is  my 
money.  I won’t  forget  that,  at  any  rate.  Do  I 
get  it,  or  don’t  I?” 

And  this  goes  on  for  “above  an  hour,”  because, 
being  capable  of  dreaming  “Kubla  Khan,”  you 
are  incapable  of  throwing  this  person  downstairs; 
which,  of  course,  is  what  he  richly  deserves. 
Whether  he  gets  his  money,  depends  largely  on 
whether  you  have  it  to  give  him.  Actually,  he 
is  less  menacing  than  he  appears.  He  may  even 
have  a sneaking  sympathy  for  you;  and  all  the 
way  back  to  Porlock  he  mutters  comment  relative 
to  your  sanity. 

Or,  perhaps  you  are  in  the  middle  of  the  dream 
itself ; stretched  easily  in  the  wicker  rocker,  smok- 
ing. The  telephone  rings.  You  ignore  it.  It 
continues  to  ring.  In  the  end,  you  say  “Damn!” 
forcibly  (I  hope  you  do!),  and  answer  it,  although 
you  are  entirely  certain  all  the  time  who  is  at 
the  other  end  of  the  disturbance.  And  you  are 
right;  it  is  the  person  from  Porlock.  He  inquires 
pleasantly  whether  you  can  rush  him  out  an  arti- 
cle on  bee-hives,  and  bring  it  to  the  office  in  the 
morning.  He  would  not  bother  you,  but  it  is 

12 


late  in  the  month  and  he  is  up  to  his  ears,  it  seems, 
in  “business.”  If  you  are  the  right  sort,  you  will 
say  immediately  that  it  is  impossible;  that  your 
wife  has  just  died  unaccountably,  and  the  chil- 
dren all  have  scarlet  fever.  That  is  what  you 
will  say,  will  you  not?  On  the  contrary,  that  is 
what  you  will  wish  you  had  said,  after  you  have 
hung  up  the  receiver.  Actually,  you  will  think 
desperately  for  the  space  of  perhaps  one  second, 
and  then  agree  to  write  the  article.  Meanwhile, 
of  course,  the  dream  has  vanished  completely.  It 
will  never  return;  not  that  dream. 

I knew  a man  once  who  married  a person  from 
Porlock!  He  was  a writing  man,  too,  although 
a number  of  city  blocks  behind  the  author  of 
“Kubla  Khan.”  It  occurred  to  him  that  inter- 
ruptions to  his  work  were  planned  with  consum- 
mate timeliness  by  one  of  his  evil  spirits.  At 
first,  he  thought  the  episode  might  be  accidental, 
and  for  a time  he  believed  the  repetition  of  the 
episode  might  be  charged  to  coincidence;  after 
a while  it  dawned  upon  him  that,  whether  malici- 
ous or  not,  it  was  chronic.  He  observed  that  al- 
ways at  the  moment  when  the  flame  of  his  genius 
was  burning  most  brightly,  or  when  a long-de- 

13 


sired  phrase  was  hurrying  to  his  mind  to  be  cap- 
tured, his  wife  would  burst  dramatically  into  the 
room  to  inquire  what  had  become  of  last  evening’s 
newspaper,  or  whether  he  would  mind  answering 
the  doorbell  if  it  should  ring,  because  she  was 
going  to  lie  down,  or  why  he  had  not  told  her 
he  had  received  a letter  from  Robert  Southey  say- 
ing that  the  baby  was  ill. 

Whenever  my  wife  — whenever  my  friend’s 
wife  — thus  interrupted  his  writing,  he  became 
choked  with  a blind  fury,  and  replied  that  he  had 
buried  the  kitten  in  the  desired  newspaper,  or 
that  the  bell  might  ring  until  the  battery  was  ex- 
hausted, or  that  he  sincerely  hoped  the  baby  would 
die.  All  of  which  was  not  good  for  my  friend’s 
temper,  and  often  spoiled  his  style.  He  realized 
that  his  wife  was  a charming  person,  pleasant  to 
look  at,  and  nice  to  have  around  the  house;  but  he 
fervently  wished  she  were  not  so  desperately  in- 
terested in  affairs  at  Porlock.  And,  of  course,  he 
did  not  really  wish  that  Robert  Southey’s  baby 
would  die,  while  the  kitten,  at  the  moment,  was 
in  his  pocket  — not  at  all  dead,  nor  even  mor- 
ibund. It  is  likely  enough  that  he  was  sincere  in 
the  matter  of  the  doorbell. 

14 


4 


Persons  from  Porlock,  naturally,  are  not  all 
amiable;  although  most  of  them,  no  doubt,  are 
well-meaning.  That  perhaps  is  the  worst  of  the 
whole  matter.  If  their  intentions  were  delib- 
erately malicious,  an  end  to  their  pernicious  activ- 
ities might  well  be  accomplished  with  the  nearest 
object  to  hand  — a thick  walking-stick,  or  a 
flower-pot,  — and  Porlock  (enormous  as  that  city 
is)  shortly  would  be  depopulated.  Often,  how- 
ever, the  person  is  one  who  should  know  better; 
one  who  himself  would  be  the  first  to  groan  when 
the  knocker  resounded  through  the  house. 
Having  finished  setting  down  his  own  dream 
of  Xanadu,  without  interruption,  blandly  he 
descends  upon  his  friend  to  read  it  aloud.  He 
looks  about  him  at  the  littered  desk,  at  his  friend’s 
haggard  countenance,  at  his  friend’s  ink-smeared 
elbows,  and  hopes  he  does  not  interrupt.  . . . 

And  a golden  afternoon  is  torn  from  the  calendar 
with  ruthless  hand,  and  “Kubla  Khan”  remains 
unfinished  where  it  was  dropped,  until  another 
afternoon,  when,  as  like  as  not,  it  is  forgotten. 

Good  chap ! He  is  the  least  offensive  of  them 
all  — but  he  is  from  Porlock ! 

The  place  has  no  frontiers;  it  is  as  wide  as  the 
15 


universe.  Its  geographical  boundaries  are  the 
the  boundaries  of  the  world ; its  history  is  the  his- 
tory of  Time.  Porlock-on-the-Hudson,  Porlock- 
on-the-Thames,  Porlock-on-Avon.  . . . How- 
many  times  do  you  suppose  Anne  was  obliged  to 
call  Master  Will  to  his  dinner?  . . . Por- 
lock-on-the-Styx.  . . . 

Ah,  that  person  from  Porlock-on-the-Styx ! 

How  many  “Kubla  Khans”  has  he  interrupted 
with  his  sudden  knock!  With  him  there  is  no 
argument;  no  payment  will  insure  his  departure. 
. . . When  he  leaves  we  accompany  him  to 

and  beyond  the  threshold.  St.  Ives  must  wait 
the  magic  of  another  hand  to  lead  him  from  his 
difficulties;  on  the  littered  desk,  unfinished,  lie 
our  Kubla  Khans,  our  Edwin  Droods,  our  Ivory 
Towers.  . . . 

In  kindness  perhaps  he  comes,  the  last  and  most 
formidable  of  his  caravan.  His  business  brooks 
no  delay.  By  him  indeed  are  we  detained  “above 
an  hour.” 


